


Spin Me Right Round

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bodyswap, Electron Carpet, M/M, carpet diem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 10:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6371509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“No offense, Stanford, but that is the ugliest rug I’ve ever laid eyes on.” </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“It’s not a rug,” Stanford scoffs, as he smooths it out, “it’s a carpet.” </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Oooh, a carpet.” Fiddleford rolls his eyes. “Now I get it.” </i></p><p> </p><p>100- and 300- drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin Me Right Round

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for slight body dysmorphia (Possibly?)
> 
> Based off a tumblr prompt of Fidds and Ford swapping bodies via the Electron Carpet.

“Fiddleford? Come over for a minute! I need your help.” 

Fiddleford thunks his head into the table and groans. ‘I need your help’ is Stanford-ese for, ‘This doesn’t actually require two participants to execute properly, but there’s still some risk involved, and I’d rather not be on that end of the deal if it comes down to it.’ 

“Okay!” he yells back. 

In Fiddleford-ese – which Stanford (un)fortunately isn’t very fluent in - that particular reply translates to, ‘I would really rather _not_ , but apparently I can’t say no to you, so. Here I am. ’  

He wonders how they’re still together.

x x x

“No offense, Stanford, but that is the _ugliest_ rug I’ve ever laid eyes on.” 

“It’s not a rug,” Stanford scoffs, as he smooths it out, “it’s a _carpet_.” 

“Oooh, a carpet.” Fiddleford rolls his eyes. “Now I get it.” 

“Exactly,” says Stanford. “Now, take off your shoes and build up some static on this thing, would you?” 

“What are we, twelve?” Fiddleford does as he’s asked. He’s learnt it’s easier – and often better – not to question Stanford’s (thankfully non-lethal) experiments. 

The other chuckles. Stanford gently flicks his forehead. 

There’s a flash of blue –

– and the world goes white.

x x x

When he comes to, he finds himself staring down at… a comatose version of himself. 

Fiddleford decides he must be looking down on his own corpse as a soul. He starts screaming. 

His body immediately bolts upright into a sitting position, glasses askew on its nose from the force of it. He screams louder. He’s pretty sure corpses aren’t supposed to move.   

“Fiddleford. Fiddleford!” His double gestures wildly at him, manic grin on its face. “It’s me, Stanford! I’m in your body!” 

“…what?!” he balks. But something doesn’t add up. “H-hang on, what happened to  _your_ – ”  

… 

Oh. 

_OH._

x x x

“Oh, _no_.” He stares down at himself. “Nooo, no, no.” 

He’s in Stanford’s jacket. Stanford’s shirt. Stanford’s pants and shoes. And – oh, for crying out – 

“ _Commando_ , Ford? Really?!” 

“Incredible!” Stanford’s not even listening to him. He looks like he’s just won a Nobel prize. (He very well could; it’s his wildest invention yet.) “A full mind transfer, with _no_ memory cross-contamination! Thoughts that are _my own entirely_ , except in _your_ body!” 

Fiddleford turns extremely self-conscious as he watches the other pat his own body down. It’s all just science to Ford, of course, but… still. It’s _his_ body, consarn it.

x x x

“I want to change back,” he blurts. “ _Right now._ ” 

Ford nearly whines. “What? But the fun’s barely started!” 

“For you, maybe.” He’s getting increasingly flustered as the seconds tick by. Just… the idea of _Stanford_ , with his strong jaw and muscled arms and firm abs… in _his_ body. Fiddleford’s bony, _pallid_ body, with his flabby paunch and stretch-marked thighs and… floppy triceps. 

He’s not normally this self-conscious, and their relationship has reached the point where they’re comfortable being naked around each other. But actually  _becoming_ Ford, looking back at his own imperfections through Ford’s seemingly flawless physique… 

It’s nearly unbearable.

x x x

“C’mon, Fidds! Be a sport.” Ford punches his arm lightly (and wow, Fiddleford is  _really_ going to need to work on those arm muscles once he’s back in his own body). “For _science_ , man! Live a little!” 

“Stanford…” 

“Here.” Ford pulls out the little voice recorder they use for taking notes. He switches it on and points it towards Fiddleford, beaming. “Talk to me.” 

“Stanford, I really don’t – ”  

“What are you thinking?” 

“Ford! Would you please just _stop_ and _listen_ to – ”  

“How do you feel?”   

The dam breaks. Fiddleford explodes. 

“TERRIBLE!” he bellows. “Alright? _Happy?!_ I – feel – TERRIBLE!”

x x x

Stanford-in-Fiddleford’s-body’s eyes go wide. 

“I hate this!” Fiddleford moans. He rounds his shoulders defensively – Ford’s big, broad shoulders – trying to disappear between them. How on earth did you tell your boyfriend he was too well-sculpted for his own good? Better yet: how did you do it without inflating his already massive ego? “It’s _weird_ a-and I’m just, I’m just _gross_ and – I don’t know how you _stand_ it! Can we please…   _please_ just change back?!” 

Stanford says nothing. Instead, he raises a hand between them and spreads his fingers. 

Stanford-in-Fiddleford’s-body’s five fingers – oh. Crap. _Crap_ …! 

“It’s my hands, isn’t it.”

x x x

He’d _completely_ forgotten about Stanford’s hands.

While Stanford’s always been ashamed (sometimes even to the point of obsession) about his six-fingered deformity, Fiddleford has never once had a problem with his hands. They’re a part of Stanford, as much as their owner loathes them, and Fiddleford has accepted Stanford Pines as “Stanford”, not “Stanford and his extra fingers”. 

It’s why he doesn’t pay as much attention to them as Ford does. 

It’s why it’d never even occurred to him that it would even _be_ an issue during their body switch. 

He’s been sorely mistaken. 

Ford switches back by shoving past. 

x x x

It baffles him, how emotionally _obtuse_ Stanford can be for almost all of the time, but yet still be so delicately sensitive where it concerns his hands. 

He’d tried to explain himself. Ford wouldn’t have it, taking the steps to the attic in twos instead and slamming the door behind him like a mature adult. Knowing Stanford, this also meant he would probably sleep up there for the night. 

Fiddleford sighs and erases what must no doubt have been an extremely hurtful – albeit misunderstood – message from the recorder. Then thunks his head into the table and lies there in silence.

x x x

The recorder is right outside the attic door. Stanford steps on and nearly breaks it. 

He hesitates, frowning, before hitting Play. 

 _“Stanford Pines.”_ It’s Fiddleford. _“If you’re listening to this, you’re an idiot. I_ love _you. I love_ all _of you, including your hands. While those remarks I made earlier were neither directed at them, nor towards yourself, I understand why you’d came to that conclusion. I’d forgotten about your own insecurities. That… was a grave oversight on my end. I apologize.”_

Stanford’s lips twitch. 

 _“I’d like to… make up, for that unfortunate incident.”_ Pause. _“I’ll be in the study.”_

x x x

Stanford clears his throat in the doorway. 

Fiddleford jumps. Then exhales. His expression settles into something in-between helpless affection and frustrated annoyance, as he runs a hand through his hair. 

“For the record,” Fiddleford grumps, “when I said ‘I was gross’, I was referring to  _this_.” 

He makes a show of jiggling his belly. Stanford snorts without meaning to. “And this.” He bats at his underarms. “…Everything, really. But _these_ – ” Fiddleford stands to grasp Stanford’s hands “ – have _never_ , and _will never_ be gross nor weird to me.” 

Stanford half-shrugs, smiling. “…I could say the same for your own insecurities.”

x x x

They hug each other and stay that way for the next few minutes, basking in the unconditional acceptance and simple comfort of being in the others’ arms. 

“So…” Stanford murmurs, trying to sound casual, “what was that about making up…?” 

Fiddleford huffs in his ear, clearly embarrassed. “I was going… to suggest a second swap. Show you _exactly_ what I liked about your body, your hands, to you… until I realized that would mean I would basically be making love to _my_ _own_ _body_ and, well. If that isn’t awkward, I don’t know what is.” He pauses. “Although, would that even count as intercourse…? Or just masturbation? I mean, technically, if I’m going to have sex _with_ myself, just not in my own body, but _to_ it - ” 

“I wonder.” Stanford’s hands begin sliding down his sides. “Might need to run more than one experiment, to be sure. Set up a control… Introduce a couple of variables…” 

His hands come down to cup Fiddleford’s behind before they simply… _rest_ there. Fiddleford’s eyelid twitches.   

“ – Record the findings… Compare the results…” Ford gives the barest of squeezes with his fingers – all glorious twelve of them – and Fiddleford is almost embarrassed by how ridiculously quickly his blood rushes south. “Standard procedures. You know. For science, and whatnot.” 

“Yes, yes. All in the name of science.” He leans in a little closer, deliberately presses himself into the other and what do you know, he’s not the only one who’s gotten excited far too swiftly. “But don’t expect me to take a _back seat_ just because I’m your assistant. I’ve got a few theories of my own that I’d like to… _dispute_.” 

“Hmph.” Stanford smirks. “I suppose we’ll need to test them all…” 

The cabin flashes blue for the rest of the night.


End file.
